


'A' is for...

by Sophia_Prester



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Dissociation, Gen, M/M, Panic Attack, Post-3.26, background zimbits, homophobic attitudes, lots of cursing because hockey players, other pairings withheld because spoilers, parse is not doing well but he's doing better, past pimms, the aces have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Prester/pseuds/Sophia_Prester
Summary: The night of the last game of the Stanley Cup Finals, Kent learns that 'A' can stand for a lot of things. These include, but are not limited to:Alternate. Ally. Asshole. Assumptions.Alone.





	'A' is for...

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen a lot of varied and interesting takes on Kent since the last update dropped, and the Kent you see here is just one of several possible headcanons I have for the guy. Basically, he's still pretty messed up, but has taken a few first steps towards getting better. YKentMV, of course.

NBC was about to cut to a pre-game interview with Bob, and Kent was still on the fence about whether or not it was a bad idea to watch when Swoops pulled him away from the TVs (sloshing beer all over the place as he went) and asked him what it would be like if Jack won the Cup tonight.

"And I want your real answer, Parser, not whatever line of BS you're already planning to feed the media when they ask, 'cause you know they're gonna ask. I'm your A, buddy. It's my job as alternate to look out for you, eh?"

"Huh. I thought that A on your sweater stood for 'asshole of the useless variety'," Kent retorted with a wink and a grin. In practice, the Aces' alternates didn't actually do much aside from planning off-season parties and cookouts. Not that Kent did much more than that as captain. He made a note to feel guilty about that later. Or not.

Swoops stared at him for a while, and he might have been having a little trouble focusing. He was definitely having to lean on a nearby slot machine for support.

"You still with me, Swoops? What is it?"

"What it is, is that it's way too early for me to be drunk enough I can't think of something 'C' stands for that won't make you want to knock my teeth down my throat," Swoops said. "Do me a solid and pretend I said something out-of-this-world clever that wouldn't have HR crawling up my ass again, okay?"

Kent laughed bitterly, knowing that most of the guys would have gleefully unleashed the homophobia or misogyny without a second or even a first thought. He gave Swoops a friendly shove. "Sure. You're a good egg, Swoops."

"Damn straight, I am. I'm a fucking brilliant - what'd that stupid inclusion video call it? Ally? Yeah, ally. Now are you going to answer my question, or what?"

"It'll be a good thing," Kent said after thinking it over for a bit.

Swoops gave him a dubious look over the rim of his glass, and even though he didn't press for an explanation, Kent gave him one. Well, part of one.

"If he wins, we'll be back on even ground, y'know? If the Falcs win, there's no way Ja... Zimms won't get the Smythe, the way he's been playing. Plus, it's pretty much a given he's gonna get the Calder, and Ovie only beat him out for the Richard by that one goal that shoulda been called off anyway."

Swoops groaned and banged his head (gently, of course) on the slot machine. "Jesus, Parser. Do not tell me you're going to try to hook up with that douchebag again. Just... _no_. The third time is _not_ the charm here."

Kent didn't blame Swoops for reacting like that, even if the exaggerated shudder at the 'no' was kind of rude. He'd drunkenly outed himself to Swoops after the first Samwell visit, and Swoops was the only person who even had half a clue about how bad things got after that second visit. As far as Swoops was concerned, Zimms was Bad News.

"I miss my friend," Kent said. It was true. He did. Zimms _got_ him in ways no one else ever had. He had felt safe around Zimms in ways he still didn't with anyone else, not even Swoops. "And believe it or not, I want my friend back."

"You've got friends here," Swoops grumped. "Are we not good enough for you or something?"

Kent laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before guiding him back towards the bar. "Sorry, pal, but you're a second liner all the way. Now come on or we're gonna miss the puck drop. Also, do yourself and everyone else here a favor and switch to water until second period at least. You're a tragedy waiting to happen."

That seemed to end the conversation as far as Swoops was concerned, but Kent's mind kept rolling with it even though he wished it wouldn't. He had finally accepted after that disastrous second Samwell visit (plus way too many 'healthy' scratches and finally caving to management's threats and seeing a therapist) that he couldn't _make_ Zimms get back together with him, or be friends with him, or even be willing to talk to him again. Recently, he had even taken a few baby steps towards acknowledging the bitter truth that trying to get Zimms back may have instead fucked things up past the point of repair.

But was it a crime to want? To hope? To daydream?

There were so many ways things could go down, if Jack won the Cup.

He could call Jack to congratulate him and Jack would actually answer the phone. Or, Jack might finally feel like he'd proven himself and be the one to call Kent. Maybe they could meet up at the NHL Awards. Maybe they could apologize to each other and everything would be okay. Maybe they could be friends again. Maybe they could be more. Maybe things would start off slowly, or maybe - now that they could finally meet as equals again - it would all come back in a heated rush.

Or maybe Scraps (of all people - what the hell?) would sit next to him in a shitty sports bar and nervously pass him a phone so Kent could sit there in a very public place and watch Jack kiss some other guy in front of the whole fucking world.

Kent could have sworn he was watching from somewhere over his own shoulder as Jack pulled a blond kid into his arms. They kissed, and it was so much like what Kent imagined, what he had dreamed over the years, that the blond in Jack's arms became a reflection made solid and it was _him_ Jack was kissing and all his wishes and dreams and fears had been captured and were being broadcast in full color even though he had tried and tried to keep it all hidden. Everyone was going to _know_ about him, it was out, he couldn't stop it...

...and then a dozen Falconers swarmed the duo, with St. Martin hauling Jack into a hug and Robinson ruffling the blond kid's (not Kent's) hair and Mashkov damn near causing a wipeout because he apparently forgot he was on crutches and tried to throw the kid over his shoulder. And then all the WAGs were there, and the kid scooped up someone's toddler like he'd done it a million times before.

They _knew_. They knew, and they didn't care. They knew, and fuck, did that mean they knew about Kent? Did _everyone_ know? Kent was getting lightheaded and he knew he should breathe but he couldn't, he couldn't move. He couldn't.

"Oooh, so he's gay or whatever? Jesus Christ."

Carl. Of course. Shit, shit, _shit_ , of all the people to figure out Kent's secret, it had to be that sub-literate douchebro, but wait, no, he was talking about Jack? Yeah, he was talking about Jack and somehow that made it a million times worse. Swoops - Kent was pretty sure it was Swoops - said _come on, Carl_ , but he was half-laughing as he said it, and it only made Carl double down and make some crack about the Cup parade.

It wasn't funny, but everyone laughed. _Everyone_. Everyone but Kent, and Scraps, who had gone kind of green and stuck out his hand for his phone. Swoops changed the subject by goading Carl to talk about his favorite subject (Carl), but he was still laughing like a hyena along with everyone else at that fucking stupid parade joke.

Kent shoved the phone back at Scraps and tried not to think about why the guy looked like he wanted to puke. He was probably going to wipe his phone down with hand sanitizer or something to get rid of the gay cooties from the video.

Kent stood up abruptly. "I gotta use the little boys' room," he said, half-hoping it would lure Carl into making another crack, one that would give Kent a halfway decent excuse to bash his empty skull in with a bar stool, but no one said anything as he stalked off.

He strode straight past the men's room and out the back exit. He wanted to cool off and take a deep breath, but the temps were still in the upper eighties and the exit emptied out right next to a very full and very ripe dumpster.

"Shit!" He kicked at a beer bottle that had fallen out of the recycling bin. It shattered where it landed several yards away but the noise from the Strip ate up his shout and the sound of broken glass. He picked up another bottle. This one, he threw. "SHIT!"

"Uh, Parser?" came a tentative and not very welcome voice.

"Go back inside, Jeff," Kent said as calmly as he could make himself. He waited for a count of ten breaths, but when he looked over his shoulder, Swoops was standing there, shuffling awkwardly in place and looking like he wished he was either a lot more sober or a lot more drunk.

"Y'know, the restrooms are inside, but if you were planning to piss on Carly's tires, I won't stop you. Hell, I think half the guys on the team wouldn't lift a finger to stop you."

Kent looked away and started walking. His car was only a block away. "Right. Just like they didn't lift a finger to stop Carl when he decided to be an ignorant asswipe. Thanks, by the way."

"Aw, c'mon, Parser!" Swoops sounded closer than before, which meant that he was following Kent, which, no thank you. "He was just being an idiot, like usual."

An idiot about something that Swoops knew damn well was a big sore spot for Kent. He'd _seen_ how big of a sore spot it was. _Twice_.

"And everyone laughed at him - like usual. Including the guy who's my best friend on the team." He didn't stop walking. "I'll tell you what, that was a fan-fucking-tastic way to end this shit-show of an evening!"

And this was where Swoops should apologize or maybe just say whoops! and he'd try to do better next time. But no, that was not the kind of night Kent was having.

"What? So I laughed. Big deal! It just sort of happened, and it would have been a way bigger deal not to, you know?"

Kent stopped short and wheeled around, forcing Swoops to stumble back a step. "Pro tip - 'Not funny, dude' is a great phrase. Useful in hundreds of different situations. _Learn it,_ " he said with a jab at Swoops' sternum.

Swoops batted Kent's hand away, and looked him up and down with a curled lip. "Jeez. Lighten the fuck up, Parser. Like he said, Carly didn't actually say anything _wrong_ before I tried to stop him the first time. And hey, at least I was eventually able to get him talking about something else, right?"

Of course Swoops wouldn't think it was wrong. It wasn't like Carly had said anything that was out and out false or blatantly homophobic, but even just thinking about trying to explain why it _was_ wrong was profoundly exhausting.

Zimms would get it. But Zimms wasn't here.

"Yeah. Great. You made a passing attempt at being a decent human being. Gold star for Swoops!" he cheered, doing jazz hands for that little extra touch. "Happy?"

Swoops' face twisted into something ugly, but then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Look... I don't know what you want from me, Parser. I know the whole Zimmermann thing has got to suck big, hairy balls, but what - did you want me to tell Carly the whole sob story so he can walk on eggshells around you? I thought the whole point is that you _want_ to keep this shit on the down-low!"

"What I want is to know that you've got my back! We're on the same god-damned team! You got the A this year, which means that you and me," he said, gesturing back and forth between the two of them and not doing a very good job of keeping his hand from shaking, "we're a team within a team! You're supposed to be on _my_ side, genius! Not the side of some third-rate bench-warmer. Most of all, you're _my_ friend, not Carl's, and what I want is for you to understand why I'm pissed off that you laughed at a joke he made at my expense!"

Swoops flung his arms wide. "He doesn't know you're into guys! He doesn't know you had a thing with Zimmermann! What I keep trying to tell you, dumbass, is that the whole _point_ is that no one on the team knows!"

It was strange, how when anger spiked to a certain point, it turned into a calm, implacable clarity.

"Yeah, Swoops, you're right. But _you_ know. And you don't fucking get it."

The calm was starting to sizzle away, and Kent had finally figured himself out well enough to know that if he didn't get the hell out of there _right now_ , he wouldn't be able to stop himself from saying things that would leave scars - and not just on whatever poor bastard he flayed with his words.

"Screw it. I'm done," he said before he or Swoops could say anything they'd regret. He turned and walked off. "See you later. If we're lucky, we'll both go home, get blackout drunk, and forget about this whole clusterfuck."

He was not at all surprised to hear protests and footsteps stumbling up behind him.

Kent lifted his hand to knock away the shoulder-clasp he knew was coming. "Do _not_ fucking touch me, asshole!"

"Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, Parser?"

Kent said nothing. He just kept walking.

What was wrong with him was that he missed Jack. It wasn't just that he missed the man he still loved (and who clearly no longer loved him). It wasn't even that he missed his friend.

What he missed was having someone around who actually _got it._ Someone who knew what it meant to have his back. Someone who understood that 'ally' was something you did and not just a label you slapped on like a letter on a jersey because you watched a stupid video.

He missed not feeling so fucking alone all the time.

"Screw you, Parse!"

Kent was pretty sure Swoops was flipping him off, but he didn't look back to confirm. He was pretty sure he knew how this would play out based on past experience. Neither of them would get all the way to blackout drunk, but they'd both wake up tomorrow with miserable hangovers. Swoops would come by around eleven with a jug of his secret-recipe Bloody Marys (the secret being extra vodka and half a bottle of Frank's Hot Sauce) and offer a hangdog 'we good, buddy?' by way of apology.

And Kent would say they were good, and he would pretend that they were, because for all that it was exhausting how much Swoops didn't get it, he was a good friend more often than he was a shitty one, and right now it looked like that was the best Kent could hope for.

He wanted better than that, though. Especially tonight, because he knew that this thing with Jack was like that slap shot that clipped his ankle a couple of years back. When it first hit, he _knew_ it hurt like a motherfucker, but all it was: knowledge. The actual pain came after. Right now, the pain was like a boulder balanced on the edge of a cliff, and any second now it would come crashing down on him and he wouldn't be able to stop it.

Most all, though, he was tired. _God_ , he was tired.

He jolted into panicked wakefulness, however, when he rounded the corner. Someone was lurking with intent right by his car. A someone who had a good five inches and forty pounds on him. It didn't take long for Kent to recognize who it was.

"Scraps? What the hell are you doing out here, man? You need a ride or something?" Kent thought he sounded reasonably calm, but who knew what kind of speculation shitbags like Carl had indulged in after Kent left? What were the odds that someone had remembered the rumors about him and Jack and put two and two together, and shit, maybe he shouldn't have left after all...

"I - " Scraps started, and then his mouth snapped shut with an audible _clack_. Kent stopped a few feet away, not wanting to get any closer until he had a good feel for what was going on and how quickly he might need to get away.

Scraps was an old-school enforcer, the kind of guy there was less of in the league the more there were guys like Kent. He was a tough guy's tough guy, and he wasn't known so much for his skill as he was for having taken a skate to the face during a pile-up and then trying to get back on the ice as soon as the stitches were in. This season, he had been suspended twice. Two games for boarding that speedy little dude on the Flames and four games for cross-checking the Aeros' captain hard enough to break two ribs. He was the guy people pointed at first when they talked about 'typical Aces hockey.'

So why, Kent wondered, as he started walking towards the car again, was _Scraps_ the one who looked like he was about to piss himself? Scraps was five or so years older than Kent, but right now it would have been easier to believe it was the other way around.

"I wanted to talk to you," Scraps mumbled, looking like he was trying to make eye contact with the rats in the gutter. "Sorry if I, uh..."

"No, no... It's okay, man." Kent slowed his approach, speaking softly and telegraphing his moves the way he did when Kit was in one of her twitchier moods. "It's okay."

He didn't really think it was, but Scraps wasn't shaking quite as badly as he had been a second ago.

"It's just, um, you got real upset when I showed you that video."

"Right," Kent said slowly, not sure where all this was going. Scraps still wasn't looking him in the eye, and he kept scuffing his hand over his head and swallowing hard every few seconds.

"But you also got real upset when Carly started joking about your friend. I mean, he's your friend, right? Zimmermann?"

"Yeah. We haven't seen each other in a while, but yeah." No, it wasn't exactly true, but this wasn't the time or place to get into all the gory details.

Scraps was slouched over and hugging himself, looking more like a kid who had just come up from Juniors than someone who had played his first NHL game while Kent was still a bantam.

"And it doesn't... I mean, you're okay with him kissing another guy?"

No, Kent really, really _wasn't_ okay with Jack kissing another guy, but not for the same reason Scraps thought he wouldn't be okay.

"Zimms can date whoever the hell he wants," he snapped, daring Scraps to challenge him. What was Scraps getting at with all this, anyway? Screw it. He was pissed, and he was going to say what he wished Swoops had said to Carl Fucking Chadwick back at the bar. "And even though Falcs management is probably going to hand his ass to him tomorrow, he's got the same damn right to kiss his boyfriend after winning the Cup that St. Martin and Robinson had to kiss their wives."

_And if you think any different, then go take a long walk off a short pier, you pea-brained troglodyte._

He was expecting to get some kind of stammering, insincere protest that still managed to be eighteen different kinds of offensive.

What he got instead was one of the league's most notorious goons sitting down hard on the hood of Kent's brand new car, covering his eyes with one hand and flat out sobbing.

What the hell?

Oh.

_Oh._

Heart rabbiting in his throat, Kent closed the remaining distance between him and Scraps in a flash. "Hey, hey... it's okay, man. It's gonna be okay. I promise. Now get off the car, because you're wearing jeans and the rivets will fuck up the paint. And can you please stop crying, because you're freaking me the fuck out."

What the fuck was he was supposed to do next? Should he ask Scraps to confirm what Kent thought? Or maybe he should chime in with a supportive 'me too!' (and yup, there was the automatic spike of nausea and panic at the thought). Or maybe he should just try to find some tissues somewhere because Scraps was wiping away snot with the back of his hand and that was just gross. And maybe he should stop trying to take refuge in wisecracks, even ones that didn't leave the privacy of his own head.

Or maybe he should just do what he wished Swoops had had the fucking courage and decency to do.

"I'm sorry, Scraps," he said, and the confused look he got from the other man was just heartbreaking. Whatever Scraps had been expecting from Kent, an apology certainly wasn't it. "They should give me the A instead of the C, because everyone knows A stands for 'asshole.'"

"No you're not," Scraps mumbled. "An asshole, I mean. I thought, well, I hoped you'd be okay with this. With me."

Kent took a deep breath, because bursting into hysterical, nervous breakdown-style laughter wouldn't help anyone right now.

"Someone should have... I mean _I_ should have told Carl to shut his fucking mouth." And maybe he should have, but Kent had assumed it was just him in the cross-hairs, and why the hell would he want to draw attention to himself when it was clear that no one was going to have his back? "I'm your captain. I know some guys say all that means is that I'm the guy who gets to plan the parties, but I should've been looking out for you."

Scraps still wouldn't look him in the eye. "You didn't know."

"That doesn't matter."

If he hadn't had the first clue about Scraps, what else had he missed? Who else might have been in that bar, laughing to cover their own butts but also watching to see how their captain and alternates reacted? Shit.

"So it doesn't bother you, that I, uh..."

Kent raised an eyebrow. "Like guys?"

_Oh, Scrappy, my friend, do I have news for you._

"Yeah. And, y'know," he said, voice cracking, "have a boyfriend?"

Kent swore he felt a circuit breaker trip in his brain. Everything he thought he knew about Scraps was rearranging itself so fast he couldn't keep up. Scraps had a reputation as a player because he kept coming to practice with hickeys in interesting places, and from the way he talked, he burned through girlfriends at a rate that assholes like Carl found aspirational.

Girlfriends no one had ever met.

Girlfriends he always managed to break up with right before family skate or the team Christmas party or the post-season cookout.

And, now that he thought about it, Kent couldn't think of anyone ever saying that they'd been to Scraps' place even though he'd been with the team since the expansion draft. He honestly couldn't say he had any clue where in the city Scraps lived.

"A boyfriend, huh? That's cool," Kent said, because Scraps was getting visibly nervous at his lack of response. Now what else were you supposed to say at times like this? "Uh, how long have you two been together?"

And Christ, the way Scraps' eyes went soft for just a second hit Kent square in the heart the way Kit had when he first saw her huddled in the back of her cage at the shelter.

"Since we were fifteen. But me and Donny, we knew each other forever before then, I mean, he grew up two houses down from me. I don't remember ever not being friends with him."

Kent did the math on that, and even if he got it a little wrong, he knew that Scraps and his boy had been together a _long_ time. Longer than any other couple he knew except for Bob and Alicia. And given what Kent knew about the tiny Alberta town Scraps came from, it was probably nothing short of a fucking miracle that they'd gotten together in the first place and survived to tell the tale. Or not tell it, as it turned out.

"I'm jealous. No, seriously, man. That's awesome," he said when Scraps gave him a sidelong look as if not sure if Kent was teasing him or not. He really _was_ jealous, but it didn't feel like it was going to turn poisonous.

Scraps nodded brusquely, like he was squaring himself up for something. "I want us to go all the way next year, Parser. I want us to win again, and then I wanna do what Zimmermann did."

"You should've been able to do that five years ago, and I'm so fucking sorry you couldn't." Kent wished it was otherwise, but he couldn't see the Aces reacting to Scraps the way the Falcs had reacted to Jack.

Scraps didn't say anything. He just rubbed at his scar, a nervous gesture that came out only rarely, and Kent remembered with a twist in his gut how insistent he was that he get back out on the ice or at least back on the bench even though his face was still a mess.

"First things first, though," Kent said when he could breathe again, "I'm gonna help you figure out how to get Donny onto your emergency contacts list, okay?"

Scraps startled the way you did when it felt like someone had just read your mind, but then he looked like he was going to start crying again. "Management doesn't know."

 _They don't know about me, either,_ Kent almost said. He still wasn't sure he wanted them or anyone else to know. He'd need to think about it, and talk to a bunch of other people first. His therapist, for sure. Bob, maybe. "Okay. So give me his number and I'll make sure that if he needs to know anything, he'll know it."

"Thanks, Parser." Scraps looked relieved, but drained down to the last drop. Kent knew how that felt. He wondered if he should tell Scraps about himself, but it wouldn't be now. Not on top of everything else that had happened tonight.

"Things are going to change, Scraps. I'm gonna make sure of that. I should've done that earlier, but..." He shrugged. But he couldn't have his own back. He couldn't be his own ally.

He sure as hell could be someone else's ally, though.

"But?"

"But I was an asshole. Plain and simple. I could've made things different, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell Carl to shut the hell up. And don't say it's okay, because it's not. But I'll make it okay. I promise. Things are gonna change and when the time comes, you'll get to plant one on your boy at center ice if that's what you want. Or maybe you can go one better and put a ring on it. Now let me drive you home - you look seven kinds of wrecked. Where do you live, anyway?"

Scraps gave him the address.

"Boulder City!? Are you shitting me? You mean I've got to drive all the way to..." He slumped and tried to rub away the stress headache. "Argh! You know what, never mind. I said I've got you, so I got you. Get in the car. Why are all my friends are such freaking losers? Boulder City? Seriously?"

Someone else might have thought it weird how Scraps' face lit up at being chirped like that, but Kent got it.

They drove in a weirdly comfortable silence for a while, Scraps only interrupting to point out a better way to get to 215.

It was good to have something to think about that wasn't Zimms and whoever-the-fuck it was that wasn't Kent even though it was only holding off the inevitable collapse for just a bit longer.

But if he had a reason to keep his shit at least somewhat together...

"Remind me to call my therapist tomorrow."

Scraps startled away from looking into the darkness that had taken over once they passed Henderson. "Huh?"

"It's a long story, which I think you should maybe hear parts of, but not right now, okay?" Scraps needed to talk to Donny, and Kent needed to get home and cuddle with Kit and let himself break down for a little bit.

"Uh, okay?" Scraps had reverted to his usual state when not on the ice, which was pleasantly befuddled. "Oh! Turn here."

Scraps guided him through a maze of suburban streets. The general feel was upscale and private but not flashy, which was not what Kent would have expected. Of course, tonight had brought a lot of things he had not expected.

Kent finally pulled up in front of a faux-adobe house that looked like the kind of place you'd get if you maybe wanted to have kids some day. It was the sort of place you'd get with someone you'd been with for fifteen years.

Fifteen years. Jesus. He and Zimms had had less than a year as more-than-friends, and look how much it had fucked him up.

Scraps unlocked his door, but Kent reached out to stop him from getting out of the car "Hey, there's some stuff I gotta take care of tomorrow, but this weekend, I want you and Donny to come to my place for lunch or whatever. First of all, I need to see what kind of guy has been willing to put up with your ignorant ass for over a decade. Second of all, we need to talk about how we can start making things right. You want to come out to the team, right?"

"Yeah. If Donny does, I mean. But yeah."

"You do know that if you do, and it goes okay, you two are so going to get stuck with hosting cookouts for the team because it looks like you've got a sweet backyard there."

Hell, in a perfect world, they'd end up billeting a rookie or two, assuming the rookie was okay with driving out to East Jesus every day.

Scraps laughed and Kent thought that maybe everything _would_ be okay.

He waited in his car until he saw that Scraps got safely inside. He got a brief, shadowed glimpse of a large man pulling Scraps inside and into a hug before the door closed behind them.

Kent punched his own address into his GPS because suburbs always confused and annoyed him. Then, he hit the road.

He could feel the thing with Zimms pushing at his head like the first pulses of a migraine, but his mind was whirling with enough other stuff to keep it at bay for the next little while at least. He started making a list.

First, he'd text his therapist a few details the minute he got home. Once she saw what it was about, Elaine would clear the decks for a phone appointment, no questions asked. Hell, if she'd watched the game or even just the news about the game, she was probably planning to call him if he didn't get in touch by tomorrow.

Next, he'd text Swoops and tell him to show up no earlier than eleven with a double batch of his special Bloody Marys. If Swoops was too hungover to drive or decided he was still pissed off at Kent about tonight, then Kent knew where Swoops lived and where he kept his spare key. He also had an air horn and he was not afraid to use it.

One way or another, they were going to have a little talk about what it meant to be a captain and what Kent would be expecting of his alternate captains going forward. They would also talk about how being an ally wasn't just not saying shit that would get you a fine for unsportsmanlike conduct. And then, if all went well, the two of them could gang up on Link and either get him with the program or find ways to make his life a living hell.

(He made a mental note to talk to Elaine about what to do if things didn't go well and Swoops decided to be an asshole after all.)

No matter what happened, though, things were going to change. They were already changing because of Jack, and it was long past time they changed because of Kent.

Fifteen years. How many other guys were out there in the league right now who were just like him or Scraps? How many had there been over the past hundred years? He shuddered. If he thought too much about it, he was going to be sick.

He was able to keep his thoughts down to a dull roar for the rest of the drive home and then up from the parking garage to his condo. Even before he got the door open, Kit was yowling like she'd been abandoned for weeks.

It wasn't until he scooped her up and she was purring like a cement mixer and butting her head up under his chin like she was trying to crawl inside his head that something finally struck him. He'd been so busy bracing himself for the inevitable breakdown about Zimms that he'd missed something else completely. Something big.

It was so freaking huge that he wondered why he hadn't seen it before, but now that he did see it, he collapsed back against the door and slid down to the ground because the sudden flood of relief was as overwhelming as any pain.

"I'm not alone, baby girl," he said as the tears finally came and would not stop. "I'm not alone anymore."


End file.
